author

a momentary respite…

Old Miz Milam

Milam Creek 1965

At the age when dreams and life are one,I played in the stream they call Milam Creekand thought it mine. But it was namedfor her.

She was ancient, a feral crone.

She wore a farm wife’s apron and bonnetand boots as hard as iron.She had outlived her time and her kin(and her senses).

She lived in a broken-down hut beyond the fieldsand roamed the woods alone.

She carried a long stick with hersince the sheriff took her shotgun away.She stormed onto the propertyand onto neighboring farmssmashing headlights of old trucks whileraving of Russian missile doom(and seeking little children to eat) …The Baba Yaga of Warren County.

As a tiny girl I sat in the shallow currentof the creek that carries her name.Black velvety tadpoles tickled my toesand rocks whispered in the water.

A stillness fell.She was there,striding across the creek —the current fled from her steps.Pale eyes glared at me.

O spirit of water! Where is my breath?
Spirit of stone, where my heartbeat?

The Baba Yaga of Warren County —
–nodded to me. “Hello there, sweetie.”

The Baba Yaga of Warren County —–strode on.

Heart and breath rushed back to their places.The current resumed its run.

O blessed grace that kept me safe!Whether of angels or water or rockor winking sunbeams that conspired with the ripplesto bend both light and time,

that the most angry and untamed of cronesmight see this tiny girl
as a simple reflection of that tiny girl
she’d once been, in this very creeka lost lifetime ago.

m.c. chambers

Text and images from the unpublished manuscript “52 Scribbles”,copyright 2017 by M.C. Chambers. All rights reserved.